I Give it an Hour
by coffee-ink-fire
Summary: He found me hiding in a bush, stupidly hoping the pathetic bits of green shrubbery would keep what used to be my parents from finding me. Alone, I would die. I gave it an hour. Eventual Daryl/OC Rated for F bombs and lots of zombie-killing


**Chapter 1 - I Give it an Hour**

* * *

There's nothing graceful about dying, not when your most likely method of death is to be eaten alive by the two people who you used to call mum and dad. Well, '_mom_' for all you American folk. There's also nothing elegant about watching as an arrow shoots through your father's head, and his eye pops out with a sickening squelch. But, even less ladylike than either of those things, is when your mother's head explodes and showers you with blood and gore and bits of brain.

And then, because you've already lost any dignity that you had left, you vomit up everything you've eaten in the past few days, which consists of creamed corn and badly burnt, yet strangely undercooked rice, with just a touch of deer meat on the side.

All of this in front of the man who just saved your life.

He found me hiding in a bush, stupidly hoping the pathetic bits of green shrubbery would keep what used to be my parents from finding me. Needless to say, my choice hiding spot wasn't working too well for me. I clutched a six inch blade in my hands as they shook like leaves in a gale.

I would never have been able to use it, not on them, but it still gave me some strange sort of comfort, like maybe they would trip and fall on it, saving me from both death and having to actually stab them myself. Or perhaps the knife would magically spin around and stab me in the throat, and I would die without being torn apart.

My mum found me first, her dark hair swinging from side to side like a pendulum as she let out a feral snarl. Apart from the large chunk torn from her neck, and the red bloodshot eyes, she looked like she might have been alive – and just really, really angry.

She made for me, arms reaching as though they would somehow pull me towards her. My dad, closer than her, finally spotted me. Bits of spit and blood dropped from his chin. He was metres away.

Centimetres…

Millimetres…

His fingers brushed against my face as I leaned back and suppressed a sob. The knife fell from my fingers like I knew it would, as useless as I was.

An arrowhead burst out of his eye socket as the organ shot past my head like a bullet. I blinked as his body fell limp and collapsed next to me. I barely had time to glance up at my mum as a gunshot exploded into the air with her head, and she too fell.

Bloody hell…

Bile rose in my throat. I heaved, scrambled to my knees and vomited.

When there was nothing left to throw up, I fell back on my rear. With one hand I wiped my mouth and face. With the other I reached for the knife I'd dropped. Only then did I glance up to my saviour.

He wasn't anything I'd expected. No knight in shining armour with a glowing smile that could light up the night, flowing blonde locks and eyes as blue as a clear sky. It was nothing like that.

Covered in dirt and sweat, he impatiently brushed his outgrown hair out of his face as he watched me with a look that could have almost been sympathy, but may have been a mixture of disgust and impatience. The shotgun in his hand was aimed at the ground, a crossbow at his feet, hastily discarded after the arrow was shot. He worked up a mouthful of saliva and spat on the ground next to him.

Charming.

The knife in my hand felt a thousand tonnes, and I struggled to even lift it up, unsure if he was going to kill me, too, or help me or use me for his own pleasure. My heart thumped in my chest.

"You alright?" the man asked. His accent was thick, pronounced.

I nodded weakly, to afraid to do anything else, and because I wasn't about to tell him that, no, I absolutely was _not _alright.

Neither of us moved as he continued to study me, his eyes raking over my neck, my wrists, and my ankles, the main areas where the dead's mouth might make contact and take a nice big chunk of fresh, juicy flesh. "You bit?"

A standard question. I opened my mouth to answer, but no sound came out, so I settled with shaking my head. I didn't want to be the next thing to die at the hands of that shotgun.

He took a few tentative steps toward me, cautiously watching any move I made. Half kneeling in front of me, he held a hand out and his gaze intensified, seeing all of me, and waiting for a move.

I knew what he wanted before he even asked. I placed the knife in his open palm and he snatched it away as though I might change my mind. It wouldn't help me, anyway. If he was going to kill me, he'd kill me, knife or no knife. That I didn't doubt.

"You got a group or somethin'?"

I shook my head. The remainders of my group were now headless and eyeless and twice dead. "That was them," I tell him, motioning towards my parents' bodies.

He inclined his head ever-so-slightly, maybe trying to distinguish my accent. "I'm sorry," he said, a touch of emotion in his voice. 'Got a group back aways. You can tag along with us if you like."

I bit my lip in thought, watching him closely for any signs of anything. But he kept watching me with that look that suggested he was in a hurry. Maybe he was.

Either it was a trap, or it wasn't. There was a 50% chance I wouldn't end up as a sex slave, or cooking slave, or bait slave, or all of the above. He could have been a genuinely good person, disguised as a stereotypical redneck, or he could be a psycho,and a genuine stereotypical redneck. If he was the latter, I was probably going to be stuck with him whether I said yes or no, so I figured I didn't really have much of a choice.

"Okay," I managed, my second vocal indication that I wasn't completely retarded.

His face momentarily softened, and he held out a hand to help me to my feet. When I was standing, his features hardened again, and he picked up his crossbow and swung it over his shoulder with the grace of a ballerina. "Well come on, then."

* * *

I trailed slowly behind him as he led me to what I hoped wasn't going to be the biggest mistake of my life. We came to a clearing, where several cars and a motorbike were parked in an impossibly neat horseshoe around a small campfire. There was an assortment of people, sitting, wandering, and milling over a map on the bonnet of one of the cars. They all looked up at our approach, like dogs who'd just heard the word 'dinner'.

So, he wasn't lying; he did have a group. And they weren't a bunch of dirty men with creepy smiles and stinking clothes. There were woman – one of them quite notably pregnant; a kid – who looked quite sour and angsty; and an old man who didn't look dangerous at all. I breathed a sigh of relief.

One of the men approached as whispers spread through the group. His tired eyes were fixed on me.

"Daryl?"

The man who saved me, Daryl, gave him a slight nod. "Found her in the bushes," he explained, "she don't have anyone else."

"What's your name?"

"Tyler," I told him.

My parents had a dry sense of humour, certain that I was going to be a boy. Instead of changing the name when I was born, they kept it to remind me of the gender I should have been, and taught me football (soccer, for you American folk) instead of ballet in an effort to wring the female out of me and turn me into a proper English lad.

"Rick Grimes." He held a hand out, and I shook it. "You're alone?"

I nodded, wondering why 'Rick Grimes' even bothered with his last name. "My parents died."

"You didn't group up with others?"

"No," I said without hesitation. That was a conversation that I didn't want to get into. Not now, not ever. What they didn't know wouldn't harm them, and they didn't know, so there was no harm.

"Why not?"

I looked from one man to the other. What was this, an interrogation? Wasn't it enough that I was on my own, and I was scared, and my parents just died and tried to eat me, and I was a woman, and unarmed, and I couldn't possibly pull a Rambo and massacre them all?

"Rick…" Daryl began, but the other man cut him off.

"You didn't think to group up with other people? Why?"

I shrugged. "We didn't need to," I told him. "We were fine just the three of us. My dad didn't put too much trust into other people," I added, as though that settled it.

Rick nodded. "Daryl," he motioned. They walked off a little way to talk.

I strained my ears to listen, but they were talking in low voices and I could only catch snippets.

"Don't have enough…"

"…find more…"

"…leave…"

"…die alone…"

No doubt they were arguing over having to feed me and take care of me and keep me alive. Wondering just how useless I was, or if there was actually anything I could do besides hide in a bush and hope the dead fell on my knife. That maybe it would be better to leave me to my own devices, because they sure as hell didn't have the time to teach me how to keep myself alive.

With a shaky sigh, I watched the two men argue. The rest of the group watched curiously, trying to pretend they weren't staring at me like I was from another planet. One of the women made a move, as though she was going to approach me, but then stopped.

Truth be told, there wasn't too much I could do that would be useful. Sure, I could cook up a good roast, but that wasn't going to help me in this world. As for survival skills, well I hadn't needed to learn any.

Since the outbreak, I'd been with my parents. Mum was no survival guru, either, but Dad more than made up for that. He could use a gun, was more than adept in wielding a knife, and gutting and skinning animals. We never went hungry, never needed to fight anything, not even when…

Well, not even when _that _happened.

Even then, we were safe, because Dad was always there to fight tooth and nail and make sure nothing, or no one, laid a finger on us. And now, through sheer stupidity, he was gone, and Mum was gone, and I was all alone.

Daryl and Rick walked back, both of them looking less than impressed. "You can fight?" Rick asked.

It was posed as a question, but I knew there was only one answer that was right. "I can manage," I lied.

"Good." Rick motioned to Daryl, who handed my knife back to me. "We'll give you some food, and some water," he began, and I felt my heart drop, "And send you on your way. It's best if you stick to the roads…"

And as he began pointing out directions and telling me where to go and where not to go, there was only one thought running through my mind.

I was fucked.

No if's, no but's. I was absolutely, one-hundred percently, going to die. May as well tell them to stick me now, save me the pain of being eaten alive – and save them the waste of food and water.

"…you got all that?" Rick finished.

I blinked. No, of course not. I was busy panicking. "Yeah, sure." Another lie.

"I'll go see what we have." And with that, Rick wandered off to the rest of the group, leaving me and Daryl alone.

"Just don't think about it," he said.

"What?"

He looked at me. "Don't think about what they used to be. Get them before they get you." He pointed to his temple, a knowing look in his eyes, as though he could sense bullshit, and knew that I was completely fucked the moment I left. "Right in the brain. Don't even think."

Rick came back then, holding an old backpack. "Can you use a gun?"

I shrugged, as though I didn't care. As though it was something I did every day. "Prefer not to."

"There's handgun in here, and about 15 rounds. Only use them if you need them." He held the pack out, and I took it.

"You're being awfully generous to someone you're about to send off on their own."

Rick's eyes lingered on mine for a moment. Then he ploughed on. "Your best chance is to keep away from any large cities. I recommend you find yourself a car."

I slung the bag over my shoulder. It was light. "Thanks," I said, because if I said anything else I'd probably burst into tears.

With a nod at both men, I turned down the path Rick had indicated and walked off without looking back, wondering just how long it would be before I died.

I gave it an hour.


End file.
